


Resist

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, Possibly Non-Con, Serious Dubcon, interrogation kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Aboard the Finalizer, Poe's 'resistance' techniques... need rethinking, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags as content warnings.

Poe squirms in the chair, blinking at the layer of grease and grime that coats him from head to toe. There’s sand where sand should never be, and his temple pounds like a Wookie is renovating his skull. 

It’s possible he’s a little delirious. Maybe more than a little. 

“It will be less painful for you if you simply surrender the information.”  


“Yeah, well, if I wanted less pain I’d have taken a job as a janitor,” Poe replies, fighting to keep the scream out of his voice at the mental intrusion.   


“You will give me the information eventually. Why do you prolong your agony?”  


“Well, for one, because you guys don’t have a Return To Sender policy, and I kinda like still being al— _AAHHHH_ —-iiiiiiive…” It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.  


Poe tries to slide into it, to stop fighting the sensation. He needs to keep his mind away from the thoughts Kylo Ren wants. He’s only had basic training in interrogation resistance. The kind of training that kept everyone else (with their toys) away from his hidden knowledge. 

It’s just sensation. Strong sensation. He can deal with that, and he feels the fire-ice fingers inside… _think of flying. Think of flying. Think of–_

The presence pulls back, startled. Poe is shaking, the sudden elastic retreat making him woozy. He’s still half up in the air in his cockpit, and his eyes blink slowly at the mask. It hides most things, but Poe sees the tiny tilt to one side, the pulling up onto heels. 

Back in he goes, and Poe tries to fly harder. He feels the judder in the joystick, the engine pulsing through his thighs against the seat. Everything sings and hums, everything in its place, and a place for everything. Yaw. Curl. Loose a torpedo. Bank. Turn. 

“Where is the map?”  


Poe forcibly removes that from his mind, back into his ship. He can smell burning, though, as the craft starts to disintegrate under Kylo’s influence. No, no, no… 

_You like this_.

**Well yeah, I am a pilot.**

_Not just the flying. You like_ **this**.

**Nah, don’t get your hopes up.**

He knows what Kylo is referring to, though, and he’s trying to ignore it. It’s… an unfortunate side-effect, sometimes, of flying. The adrenaline makes certain things forget about gravity, and lift. He’s taken to tucking himself carefully into layers of clothing so as not to be inappropriate after landing (or not where anyone can see), but right now there’s no straps to hold him down.

He’s getting hard, and he’s _not_ entirely sure it’s only from the internal flight sim. Think of something intense, they’d said. Find something deep.

Apparently his version of ‘deep’ is getting a hardon over _Black One_. At least, he hopes it’s his normal ship boner, because if he turns out to have a thing for…

The intent in his mind pushes deeper. It’s like a hand stroking through his body, through his head. It’s almost palpable, and he squirms at the shocking intimacy, feeling the thrill despite himself.

_You really are sick. Do you normally get off to pain?_

**Who hasn’t done a bit of biting in the sack?**

He’s not sure why he hasn’t said it aloud, but maybe it’s easier to admit if it stays inside his skull. His body sings under the psychic penetration, fear and hope making his heart pound like it’s forcing his blood into his dick waiting to explode out. 

The Knight’s all the way inside, or so it feels like. He’s able to control every bit of Poe’s body. He could stop his lungs from expanding, or make his blood stand still. He could force Poe to lift a blaster to his temple, to blow his brains out. He could force him to do… _anything_.

(And yes, he has to admit, now he’s hard at the concept. Of being so completely over-powered. This man could destroy him, and Poe can’t help but feel drawn to it.)

_The map_.

**Not gonna happen.**

_You will give it to me._

The next touch is to his emotional core, spiking through first joy and glee and then making his eyes spark wet with sorrow. He’s dragged through his frontal lobe, kicking and screaming, tossed on thermals of feelings. Flashes of memories (brown eyes, not his mother, but cl–)

_GIVE IT TO ME_.

**_NEVER._ **

Harder comes the touch, and he’s slamming his head into the back of the seat, screaming his refusal. The sensation in his belly pools hotter, and then there’s a definite shift to touching.

There’s no hand, but he can _feel_ one, curled around his cock. He opens his eyes in horror, and finds himself thrusting into nothingness. 

“Get off me.”  


“I’m not touching you.”  


“Get the _fuck_ out of my _head_.”  


“You were the one who went down this path… I offered you the chance to confess. But if you’re so distracted, maybe removing the distraction…”  


The sensuality of it is gone, replaced by brute contact. Nothing touches him, but he feels like every nerve in his body is fired up with extra energy, crackling with nowhere to go. His cock rubs inside his pants, and there’s a tightness across his balls. Harder pressure, and he needs it to fucking well stop.

Why is his body doing this? Why won’t it just - just - not? Kylo’s using his own distancing tactic to turn something pure and enjoyable into something he doesn’t want. He doesn’t want his joy of flying to mix with the - the weird call to the void, the darkness inside of him. That thought of ‘what if I jumped’. He doesn’t want the longing for almost-death to sing this loudly, and he doesn’t want his bodily pleasure subverted to be his betrayal of his ideals. It’s wrong, so wrong, and he can’t help it. He can’t help but want it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he _does_.

…(dangerous mission? next to no chance of survival? glory if I win? death if I fail?)

Kylo Ren knows this, now. Knows how wrong he is, down in his core. Using the veil of ‘heroism’ to cover over something dark and empty and gnawing in him. Poe hates that he’s seen, that he knows him better than anyone else. His eyes entreat the mask, but…

**Please stop.**

_The map._

He can’t surrender it, but now it’s a matter of pride. He’s sure Ren could take it, but he wants Poe to _give_ it. His body clamours louder, and there’s a weird sensation of pressure between his thighs. He yelps, grinding into it, feeling that almost-there sensation just before your hand goes faster, or your thrusts get harder. He’s close. So close. If he can just hold out and not think about— about—

The moment before the climax, the second when the air gets sharp with promised lightning. Poe screams in agony, and he needs he needs he needs he needs–

_The. Map._

**BB-8. Please. Let. Let me…**

_A droid?_

Poe sobs in desperation, humping and writhing and desperate for the knot to loosen. He bites down so hard on his lip that his mouth brims with blood.

**Orange and white. One of a kind.**

Poe knows Kylo might well just leave him, but at least the feelings would fade. He doesn’t want to beg, but he’s close to.

“Wasn’t that easier?” the Knight asks, and drops his hand to his side.  


The release - out of his head - is enough to make Poe’s whole core explode. He can’t feel any ejaculate, but he feels the release where tension once was. He’s broken, sore, and he knows he’s lost. He knows he’s betrayed everyone.

And he watches Kylo leave.

He won’t have long. They’ll break the rest from him, and then they’ll kill him.


End file.
